Says Who?
by OMhypothesis
Summary: Lady Hawke is having a hard time choosing a dance partner, and Varric is having a hard time staying impartial. One shot, FemHawke and Varric. Rated M for sex, language, and general naughtiness.


****I've always been intensely frustrated by the fact that I cannot romance Varric in Dragon Age II. He is by far the sexiest. So here's my take on how it could have gone down. One shot, hot and heavy, get ready, go!**

**I own nothing. I'm just another creepy fan.****

The Hanged Man was loud at the week's end. Loud, smelly, violent. Even so, Varric clearly heard Anders muttering vehemently under his breath.

"That's _so_ not fair," grumbled the mage. Varric followed his line of sight and immediately found himself in agreement.

"What's not fair?" asked Fenris, from his wallflower perch against the bar.

"That." Anders pointed to the middle of the floor, where Isabella had managed to coax a dusty, battle-worn Hawke into a mead-inspired dance. Between the two of them there was a pleasing abundance of hips to shimmy. Fenris tossed his silver head. "After battle, it is good to throw one's cares away for a time," he stated dismissively.

"I don't think they're just throwing 'cares' around out there tonight, elf," Varric drawled wryly. Ten feet away, Hawke tipped her head back to laugh, and Isabella, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned in and pressed her lush lips to Hawke's long throat.

"NOT fair," Anders groaned.

"Lady Hawke has the right to find love where she will," Fenris replied uncertainly.

"Yes, yes, I'm all for it of course. But if I had reviewed that relocating charm…"

"You could beam yourself from here to… just… there," smiled Varric, using his fingers to indicate a tiny sliver of space between the two women.

Anders sighed in agreement. "Exactly!" Fenris turned dark, outraged eyes on the both of them.

"For Andraste's sake, apostate, can you not cease plotting your deviant stratagems for a single evening!" he spat, focusing on Anders. Varric saw the two men gearing up for another spitting match and quickly sidled away. Conveniently, his new spot afforded him an excellent view.

Isabella had craned her dark head up until her lips were brushing Hawke's ear. "I've a present for you, my lovely," she murmured thrillingly. "Wait for my return." Hawke let her dusty, callused hand fall from its spot on the swell of the pirate woman's hip. She raised it to rub her chin thoughtfully instead. As Isabella danced away, hips swaying, Varric slipped forward.

"Didn't take you for a lady-lover, Hawke," he said, and her shoulder jerked. He loved startling her. Unfazed, she turned her bright eyes on his face.

"I'm a creature of sophisticated and… diverse tastes, Varric. You wouldn't tell on a friend?" Her smile was pure mischief. "Besides, weren't you watching her? Could _you_ resist?"

"Could I? Of course. Would I?" He hummed thoughtfully. "Not hardly."

"You're a wicked man," she laughed. She threw her head back again, her short dark hair gleaming in the lamplight like pinfeathers on a raven's wing. He noted the spot on her pale neck where the other woman had kissed her, and for a brief moment something tightened in his gut. "You wound me," he said in mock-sorrow. Then Isabella was swinging back, sinuous as a cat, to twine a beautiful scarf around Hawke's merry eyes. Varric turned away as Isabella was leading her prize to a back room, so he didn't see Hawke glance back at him through her silken blindfold. All he saw were the male eyes that followed them as they exited the bar.

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A week later, Merrill had crept out of her hole in Lowtown and was more or less sobbing on his shoulder. Or whatever the Dalish equivalent was. It was giving him palpitations.

"I didn't even know she _liked_ women!" wailed the girl in her strange brogue, all the while wringing her hands over her cup of cider.

"Uh…" He sought after something comforting. "Well, Isabella is kind of tomboyish, you know."

"I can be tomboyish!" Merrill insisted. "I can… start fires, and… and set up tents! I can explode a darkspawn from thirty feet away!"

"Yeah, Daisy, you sure can. Usually it's more like three feet away from my new leather boots, but whatever."

"Why can't she see what's right in front of her!" The little elf's voice was fierce. "Doesn't she know I'd… I'd sell my soul to a demon if she'd just _look_ at me!"

"Listen, kid, don't get too worked up about this thing with Isabella. Everyone's blowing things way out of proportion. I think it was a one time deal, and besides, Isa's a pirate. You know they don't stick around." He stared ruminatively into his ale. "Also, please don't actually sell your soul to a demon. Knowing you, you probably think that's a good plan, but I'm here to tell you it never turns out pretty." He heard the familiar scuff of boots coming up the stairs and looked up just as Hawke padded through the door. Before he could figure out how to project "NOT A GOOD TIME" with his eyebrows, she had slipped up behind Merrill and tweaked her ear.

"Look who's out and about!" Hawke trilled. "What brings you into the sunlight, my pretty little mouse?" Merrill stared up at her with those impossibly huge doe-eyes, and promptly burst into tears. She scurried out the door while Hawke was still gaping.

"What'd I do now?" she demanded, plopping ungracefully into the vacated chair. She crossed her arms over her chest, which did some really interesting things to her bosom. _More on that later_, thought Varric, sighing. He took a long, noisy draught of ale, then sat back and met her eyes.

"Seems your little sparring match with Isabella has got everyone's bloomers in a bunch," he said, waggling a brow.

"What? Who? How?" said Hawke, sitting up in her seat.

"Well, let's see. Blondie and Scars have tried to kill each other at least twice this week. Choir Boy locked himself up in the Chantry tower, said something about banishing impure thoughts. Daisy came up here and proceeded to dissolve into a puddle on my floor, which as you know, I have been _trying_ to keep clean. And Isa's compounding the problem by waltzing around town singing sea shanties like she's just won the annual Hanged Man drinking contest." He raked a teasing glance down her body. "What do you keep in those leathers anyways? A Lyrium idol?"

"You think you're so witty," Hawke returned scathingly. "Honestly, why everyone's so interested in my romantic encounters is beyond me. I spend my days covered in blood and sweat and my nights crawling through sewers and filthy caves. I cannot begin to comprehend the fascination." She raked her sword hand through her hair in frustration.

Varric began to tick items off on his fingers. "Well, you're a magnificent hero who's constantly rescuing hapless citizens from goblins and slavers and… I dunno, bears. You're funny, you're rich, you're clever…. and it probably doesn't hurt that you're like six feet tall with very generous… um… well, you're _statuesque_. Oh, and you have a dashing, worldly-wise dwarf friend recording your exploits in glowing detail. So you can thank me for that any time, really."

"Thank you. _So_ much," she rejoined, rolling her eyes. From below them two familiar voices rose above the noise.

_"By the Maker, if I have to listen to your one of your phobic little rants about mages one more time, I will hex you in your sleep!"_ said one.

_"Typical apostate treachery! Come at me in the light, you snake! You shan't spell me when my blade is in your throat!"_

"Good heavens," said Hawke, closing her eyes wearily. "Are they still at it? I wouldn't be a man for all the world. Men are mad."

"Listen, Mari, can't you just pick one and put an end to it?" said Varric, finishing his mug.

"Pick one?"

"Yeah. Grab the one you like, carry him off to your den, silence him with the magical device in your pants. Or whatever you have in there."

"Maker's balls, Varric. Keep talking to a lady like that, and she'll swoon." They both snickered.

"Seriously though," he said, still chuckling. "Are you and the pirate an item? Or do these gallant lads fighting for your favor have the right of it?"

"Me and Isa? Oh, no," Hawke said casually. "She was a pleasant dalliance. My fondness for her has not diminished, but… no."

"So you _are_ holding out for one of them."

"One of who? Anders and Fenris? Gods, no." She laughed again. Varric was nonplussed. She noticed his expression. "Listen," she said. "I know what men like that want. They want a lady-love from a tapestry. Someone to fill their pretty heads with glory and honor and lead them on storybook adventures." She snorted. "I'm a little too real to tolerate up close. If I were with one of them, they'd either have me locked up in a tower, or I'd have them falling on their sword within a year."

"So what, then? Sebastian? He's rich, and even with the Chantry obsession he's a little more level-headed than the boneheads downstairs."

"Ah, he disapproves of me. It's a shame, because his backside is extremely enjoyable to gaze upon, but I am far too vain to live with a creature like that."

"Who then? Merrill?" She looked at him blankly, and he shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, yeah, sweet kid, but… honestly, Hawke, you could have your pick. Why be alone? Nobody's immune to your charm. Name one person who is, and I'll eat my coat."

"You," she said. And then, incredibly, her cheeks turned pink.

"Me," he said, slowly. His thoughts ground to a halt as he watched her slowly flush. "Hate to deny you the coat-eating spectacle, but I'm not. Immune, that is." He cleared his throat. "Just realistic."

She was beet-red now. "Realistic?" she managed. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

He blew out a long breath. "To put it bluntly… I'm a dwarf. And you're a Valkyrie. It doesn't make sense." He broke his eyes away from hers. "I'm happy enough to be along for the ride, Hawke. Why spoil it coveting things I can't have?"

"Who says you can't?" she blurted. "Oh Maker, my face is on fire." She buried her head in her hands. Varric was gaping at her, mouth open. After a moment she squared her shoulders and seemed to shake off her embarrassment, rising to her feet. He stood too. She was coming over to him. Uh-oh.

"We're too different!" he expostulated, hands up in a gesture of defense.

"Doesn't bother me," she muttered, still closing in, and suddenly his hands, and his face, were less than six inches away from some very interesting objects. He swallowed convulsively.

"It's… bothering me less and less," he admitted, staring.

"Varric…" she murmured anxiously. He made a decision.

"Come here," he said, taking her hand. They sank down together on a bench in front of the fire. Sitting, their heads were almost level. "I believe," he said, his voice rasping, "that I would like to kiss you now." She tilted her head down, black hair falling over her face, and he placed a roughened hand along the line of her jaw. He leaned in, closer and closer, until all he could see was the owlish glimmer of her eyes in the firelight. Then his eyes were closed, and his lips were against her lips.

She smelled like black powder, and lyrium dust, and sweat, and herbs. Her mouth was firm and fine and tasted of apple cider. She shivered briefly when he broke the kiss to draw his stubbled chin across her cheek. Her hair tickled his forehead. He caught her ear between his teeth, lost in the moment, and reveled in her soft hum of pleasure.

Then her hands were in his hair, her fingers skimming delicately over the skin at the edges of his shirt, carding through the curls on his chest, trailing warmly and sweetly to the ticklish spot under his ribs. She pressed against his mouth, her tongue flickering against his, and he grasped her shoulders, squeezing, yanking her body close.

He heard his own voice as if from a distance, pouring words in her ear. "Beautiful. _Beautiful. _ Your hands are like_ fire,_ I'm burning, oh Gods, I'm going up in _smoke_…."

"Varric," she pleaded, panting. "Varric."

They tumbled to the rug below, each in a sudden feverish scramble to unclothe the other. He was unsnapping the clasps of her armored robes with deft thieves' hands. She tore at his tunic with her teeth. He thrilled with dark delight at the feel of her incisors scraping his skin.

At last the final layers of clothing had been cast aside or pushed out of the way, and they lay skin to skin, gasping for air. He scraped his sandpapery cheek against the top of her left breast and she moaned. He licked her neck, grasped her hip with one hand and slid the other lower, until she pressed into his palm, damp and aching. "Oh, beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer.

Her cry was a low, sweet tone as he slid into her, bit by exquisite bit, the feel of her tight and slick around him. He gritted his teeth and began a slow and steady rhythm, his heart pounding like a drum in his ears, louder than the harsh sounds of their breathing, her murmurs, his moans. He focused on her body, impossibly built, her legs and arms all long, smooth muscle, giving way to the silky softness of her breast, the white down of her belly. She hooked a leg over his hip, pulling him closer, demanding. He felt the muscles in her thigh begin to quiver, and picked up the pace, his whole body tight with need. "_Come on, Hawke_," he prayed. "_Come on._"

She fell with a shout, clasping him to her. He ground into her, feeling her aftershocks, pressing into her until his vision burst white. They lay together in the sudden stillness, limp and breathless.

"Probably should have locked the door," he mumbled against her breast after a time. She shifted slightly against him, amused. "You could lock it now," she offered musically.

He ran his teeth along her collarbone thoughtfully, then sighed, pillowing his head and closing his eyes. "Nah," he said. They lay there, one minute, two… he dozed blissfully in her warmth.

"Where do we go from here?" he heard her ask.

"Anywhere we want, love," he said sleepily. "Anywhere we want."


End file.
